Speak
by consultingtimelord
Summary: Prompt: AU where Molly's mute and communicates by sign language.
1. Chapter 1

_**AN: **Over on Tumblr, miz-joely passed on this prompt, which I took up (if anon doesn't mind!). I hope I've done this prompt justice. Thank you to miz-joely for letting me take up this story. _

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><p>Greg Lestrade - like most things when it came to his new civilian protegee - was hesitant. Sherlock was a genius, a bloody great genius at that, and he was damned if the kid didn't have potential. He just needed a bit of help to get back on his feet. He wasn't challenged enough. Greg knew the signs of a gifted person lacking a challenge. His girl Jo was having troubles in math. She needed to be given assignments years ahead of the rest of her peers. It was kind of like that. Sherlock was to crime solving as Jo was to math.<p>

But Sherlock was very stubborn about changing his ways. Still fresh out of rehab, he lashed out against the smallest of criticism, and let his "deductions" become a form of torture. He had already made the most stoic in the office burst into tears. Lestrade figured he'd been granted mercy from this cruel monologue from Sherlock due to him being the one that pulled Sherlock out of his black period.

This behaviour, however, made it very difficult to bring Sherlock places. Greg was supposed to go down to Bart's to check out the latest in a morbid series of murders, and he'd told Sherlock he was spending the day with him. He wasn't sure if he wanted to force the staff down at the morgue to deal with Sherlock. Especially - well, especially Molly. She was doing so well, he didn't want to ruin her... progress, as Stamford had put it once.

The look Donovan was giving him from across the room was answer enough. No one would babysit Sherlock here. Damn, she always knew what he was thinking.

"Holmes, with me. We're going over to Bart's,"

The kid, who'd been letting his irritability rise like a stench from his seat at the side of the office, bounced to his feet immediately, all legs and curls and wide, eager eyes.

"Barretson's body?" he said hopefully. Greg avoided eye contact and said, "Yeah, the morgue's got him ready. Grab your coat, let's get going,"

As Sherlock all but skipped to collect his long jacket, Lestrade cursed himself for not meeting his eyes. Poor kid, he's got such a good pair of eyes, and the light's already gone out in them.

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><p>Sherlock was at the front doors by the time Lestrade was opening his car door. He was half expecting Sherlock to wag a tail. He half scoffed, unable to help himself from laughing as Sherlock held open the door.<p>

"Cheers. Look, when we go down there, just remember to-" he eyed Sherlock carefully as the kid seemed to ignore him entirely, "... Sherlock."

"Yes yes, best behaviour. Show me," Sherlock said, nearly whining. With a sigh, Lestrade nodded to the nurse at the front desk, flashing his Yard ID and heading down a hallway he was all too familiar with. Sherlock trailed along after, his head craning and twisting in every direction to absorb everything. He wouldn't lose his way from now on. He knew Bart's now.

Lestrade opened the morgue door and stepped inside. His heart leaped to his throat at the sight of Molly - he was really hoping she wouldn't be in today. But there she was, focused on the corpse before her. Her interpreter was beside her, going positively green at the display. But the newly appointed Dr. Hooper didn't mind, and apparently neither did Sherlock. He strode right into the room, stopped only by Lestrade tugging him back hard on his sleeve.

"Watch it, not a word about her," he muttered. Then, he lifted his head and put on a smile, "Dr. Hooper!"

Molly jumped, not hearing them come in, but recognizing her friend had her put on a smile. Well, "smile" is used liberally. Molly didn't smile like she used to anymore. She glanced across to her interpreter, and did the thing with her fingers that she does. Sign language now, she speaks sign language.

"You're looking for Barretson, I'll get him out for you," the interpreter repeated, before glancing across the room to the two men. Wait, no, one man, Sherlock was already on the move-

"Sherlock, don't-" Lestrade warned loudly, but the kid had already stopped himself right in front of Molly. The doctor's mouth bobbed, staring up at Sherlock with fear simply oozing from him. Fingers fumbling, she mouthed a _hello._

Sherlock ignored it, instead swirling his hands in front of him. Molly's mouth dropped even further, if even possible. Her mouth formed the beginning of 'sorry', before she seemed to correct herself, and rubbed her curled fingers against her chest. Then she repeated the action he'd made, before pointing to him. Sherlock huffed in return. He tapped the side of his face, to which Molly shook her head. Her hands fumbled for a moment, and she looked to her interpreter for help.

"I have a speech impediment, I am not deaf," the interpreter offered.

"You should be _fired_," Sherlock immediately said to the interpreter, before whirling back to Lestrade.

Who just stood, gaping.

Molly finger spelled almost frantically, tripping over her signs and trying again in her excitement.

"My name is Molly Ho-"

"Dr. Hooper, yes I know, Lestrade said your name when we walked in-" he waved a hand in Lestrade's direction, "I believe we're here for a body?"

Molly nodded, and moved to grab a sheet to cover her still-open body, and moved to the drawers. She pulled one open, revealing the muddled body of John Barretson, and went over to her desk to grab a clipboard for Lestrade to read through. She looked across and started spelling to her interpreter.

"Hit to the side of the head, and goes down the face. Blood loss from damaged chin -" the interpreter waited as Molly shook her head and finger spelled the word, "Man-dib-le, led to eventual death."

"All injuries from the same weapon, Barretson was facing his attacker," Sherlock murmured.

"And how do you reckon?" Lestrade huffed, crossing his arms.

"All the injuries connect, it goes straight from the point of impact to the chin dislodging," Sherlock gestured to the body, and looked up to meet Lestrade's raised eyebrow, "You're not seriously asking about the latter? Barretson was facing his attacker! He was hit straight in the face, and the hit to the head didn't create the same amount of damage as his chin simply falling off! It's not easy removing a chin, believe me, it would take a considerate amount of force. Surely it would be enough time for Barretson to get a good look at his attacker, at the very least. It was forward facing."

Greg crossed his arms, "Alright, forward facing. No stealth involved, then. Putting that with the scene of the crime at his house, Barretson knew whoever it was-"

"-And Mrs. Mells has already sold her house next door to move across the country. Of course it was her," Sherlock gave a grunt of disgust. Lestrade knew it was disappointment for not getting it sooner. Sherlock was awful at beating himself up over cases like this.

Lestrade looked over at Molly to thank her, but she wasn't paying attention to him. She was looking at Sherlock with wide-eyed admiration. He blew air out from his pressed lips, and sighed, "Alright, back to base then. C'mon Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes slid across the room, barely sparing a second for Molly before turning his intense gaze to the interpreter. He was glaring. He looked back at Molly, and followed his words with movement from his fingers.

"You don't need an interpreter. Fire her,"

With that, Sherlock spun on his heel and strode right out, not waiting for Lestrade to lead him. Lestrade cast a glance around the room.

"Well then. Guess I'll get going. Good to see you Molly," he gave a small wave.

Molly wiggled her fingers vaguely in his direction, still staring at the door where Sherlock had disappeared behind. Her mouth formed a faint smile, her eyes bright with what could be nothing else but love at first sight.

Lestrade sighed, and followed after Sherlock. He couldn't do anything to warn Molly about Sherlock. He didn't even know how to begin to describe the kid. Sherlock was Sherlock, and he was bound to break that poor girl's heart.

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><p><strong>One year later.<strong>

_THWACK._

The sound of the riding crop meeting flesh echoed in the morgue, and Sherlock's lack of breath finally caught up to him. He backed away from the corpse, panting for air. Fidgety, he shifted the crop in his good hand.

A timid knock made him turn around.

Molly stood with her big smile, swaying slightly on the spot beside the second autopsy table, her knuckles still hovering over the top surface. She waved hello, and held up her pinky before crossing over her arms in front of her chest.

_"Bad day?"_ she asked. Stupid question, so Sherlock ignored it.

"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it."

He barely paid attention to her as he said it, already picking up his notebook and scribbling down. The body so far was proving to be very disappointing, _very_ disappointing.

Molly knocked again on the table to make him look up. He spared another glance, as she touched her chest with one finger, and tapped her temple.

_"I was thinking..."_

Her finger trailed down her jawline tentatively as she hesitated over her choice of words. It drew attention to the splash of red that coloured her face in a way it hadn't before.

"You're wearing lipstick, you weren't wearing lipstick before,"

Molly's eyebrows raised in surprise, caught like a deer in headlights over this seemingly sudden deduction. Her mouth formed a small 'o', trying to form a question to express her bafflement, before she pressed her lips together. After a moment, she finger spelled, _"Refreshed."_

Sherlock tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. He recognized the telltale signs of lying, but wasn't inclined to press into it, so he waved an airy hand in her direction.

"Sorry you were saying?"

Before he could look down again, Molly hastily moved her hand to mime a coffee mug while mouthing the word.

_"Coffee?"_

Perfect, she's going for a coffee run. God knew he needed some coffee right about now. Sherlock snapped his notebook shut, and sent a smile over.

"Black, two sugars please, I'll be upstairs."

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><p>She was dwelling. Ooh, Molly shouldn't be so entranced by the man, but oh goodness. He just had... just had this aura, like he wasn't real. Like he was a character come to life, straight from all those romance books. It wasn't that he was fit, god no.<p>

... Okay that was definitely a factor.

But it wasn't _only_ that. He spoke to her. Truly, without pity. Maybe it was because he didn't know her before she stopped talking, but it felt so nice to have that kind of attention. He could translate without an interpreter, and he'd been so right about getting rid of that woman. Laurie had been judgmental, indifferent, and infuriatingly distant. She barely tolerated Molly's work, and didn't know nearly enough of the medical lingo to catch up to Molly's thought process. Lack of an interpreter made it a challenge to communicate, but it was worth it. Molly didn't have to dumb herself down while she was talking. It felt absolutely amazing.

Sherlock could talk back too. Oh, she had no idea where he learned sign language, but he was entirely fluent - better than her, probably. She was the worst at linguistics. Sherlock had no problem with any of it. he was clever like that. He could switch and forth, sometimes right in the middle of a sentence. It would always be for her too, he always spoke sign language for her. He was so considerate.

Which is why she was scrubbing at her mouth in the bathroom. If he didn't like lipstick, the lipstick was going to_ have_ to go.

Coffee mug at the ready, She stepped into the lab, where Sherlock was talking with Stamford and a stranger. Her heart clenched at the sight of the man, and wanted to backpedal, but Sherlock had already noticed her.

"Ah, Molly, coffee."

_Just in and out, Molly. Give Sherlock his coffee and back down to the morgue, back where it's safe._ She ducked her head and hurried in, skittering around the stranger to hand over the coffee.

"Thank you- what happened to the lipstick?"

Molly looked up to see Sherlock frowning down at her. She shrugged non-noncommittally, and held up her pinky.

_"Bad-"_ ... ooh, what's the sign for "look"? Unsure, she furrowed her eyebrows in a confused way and guided two fingers away from her eyes, mouthing the word.

"Oh," Sherlock tilted his head in that ever curious way he did, before spinning back around, "Thought it was a big improvement, your mouth's too small now, can't understand a word you're saying."

Oh. Well. Molly glanced over to the other men in the room. Stamford gave a sigh and shook his head in Sherlock's direction, offered an amused look to Molly as if to say 'What can you do?'. The stranger regarded Molly curiously, like watching an animal at the zoo. Her heart sank right into her stomach under his gaze, and she hurried out.

She clutched her hands at her chest, and leaned against the wall outside. As far as most of her social interactions went, that was rather good.

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><p>Molly Hooper hadn't been at Bart's when John had been studying there. Going by the looks of her, she could've been in primary when he was graduating med school - okay, that wasn't fair. She wasn't that young, not really, but she made herself terribly small. She'd hurry from place to place, like a mouse being hunted by an owl. She kept her head down, and her arms pulled close to her torso. Also, she never spoke. The first time John properly met Molly - aside from his meeting with Sherlock - she stared at him in absolute horror, like something awful was on his face. But Sherlock signed to her, apparently spelling out John's name for her, twisting his fists over each other before pointing to himself.<p>

"You can trust John," Sherlock had said confidently that day. His word was good enough, because Molly seemed much less frightened of John after that experience. He wasn't really offended. He had a theory about Molly, see. Back in school, there were conversations about muteness, about how it could be brought on by traumatic experience. John was almost certain something had happened to her. Molly seemed to distrust men - well, maybe it was just blonde men specifically. Molly had no troubles getting along with Sherlock. In fact, when Sherlock appeared in a room, she straightened up and became extremely proactive in communication. It was probably because Sherlock was the only one that could understand her without paper and pen. He had to wonder if she could get someone to simply... translate.

That'd been his thought for a while, when they got the case about the shoes in 221C. Sherlock was being a brat, as per usual, fixated on the microscope in front of him as Molly came in, quickly accompanied by a man not much taller than her. It was John's immediate assumption that the man was a translator, in fact.

Smiling, Molly knocked on a desk to get Sherlock's attention. She gestured to the man with her, and then pointed to Sherlock, signing something.

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes!" the man enthused, "Right, yes, you've told me about him. I'm Jim, uh-"

Molly joined her index finger and thumb on both hands and linked them in a circle, mouthing the word "_boyfriend"_. John nodded in understanding.

"Boyfriend, yeah. Wow, I've heard all about you from Moll', all your cases," Jim moved around Sherlock, watching him intensely.

"Hm. Gay," Sherlock said, turning his attention back to his microscope.

Molly's smile dropped. She mouthed _"what"_, before knocking on the desk to get Sherlock to look up again.

"I said hey," Sherlock repeated, and he flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes in Jim's direction. Jim knocked over a pile of cultures in response. He apologized profusely, and then decided to take leave. Molly waved him off, before turning her stare back at Sherlock.

Not even needing words, Sherlock sighed, "Domestic bliss must suit you, Molly, its ignorance must be refreshing, you've gained three pounds since I last saw you."

Molly held up two fingers, which had Sherlock tsking, "Mm, three."

The mortician slapped the desk in response, her face contorting into rage. Sherlock didn't even bat an eye at her outburst, instead going on, "Don't be obtuse, of course he's gay. With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts product in his hair? _I_ put product in my hair," John scoffed.

"You wash your hair. There's a difference-" and off he went, rattling off a deduction about dyed eyelashes and wrinkles and gay underwear, apparently, ending in Sherlock revealing the concealed phone number pinned underneath the corrected cultures.

"I say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain," he concluded, offering the number to Molly.

She didn't smile. She didn't sign. Her face went blank, and she rushed out of the room. John immediately scolded the detective.

"I'm saving her time," Sherlock insisted, "Isn't that kinder?"

John crossed his arms, "Kinder? No. No, Sherlock, that wasn't kind."

Sherlock bristled under the criticism. He huffed, "Why, because she's mute?"

"Sherlock!" John hissed.

"Oh do shut up, it's true. Molly doesn't speak, and not even her disability will negate the fact that he's _not interested_,"

John's mouth bobbed, trying to find words to formulate his fury on behalf of Molly, but nothing came out. Sherlock had already turned his attention back to the shoes. How could anyone put into words how much of an absolute monster Sherlock was sometimes.

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><p>Molly was just finishing up the graveyard shift - no pun intended, although that was definitely a good one! - when the doors of her office crashed open. The paperwork she was doing slipped off the desk, right to her feet. She felt like she'd jumped about ten feet in the air, holding her hand to her chest.<p>

It was Sherlock, moving straight for her. Something like fire started in the pit of her stomach. She was still angry about what happened with Jim. Sherlock had been right, of course. When she confronted him about it, Jim admitted that he was gay. He felt pity for her. Pity. The thought of it made the feeling in her stomach turn to embarrassment. Of course, no one would really care about her, not like that. She can barely look someone in the eye, much less carry a conversation. She thought Jim didn't care about that stuff, that he liked her no matter what. It was sweet of him, he understood. Or so she thought.

She ought to confront Sherlock. She ought to get really, really mad, and just say what she's angry about. She should just say it, that'll surprise him. Speechless Molly Hooper laying down the law on this- this- this _really mean_ man. Sherlock was smart and handsome and kind enough to talk to her, but he was cruel and mean and he would get what was coming for him- gosh, he was already in front of her, what could she say? She had to say something.

Sherlock's hands were moving in front of him, moving too fast for Molly to follow. After a moment, he realized Molly couldn't read him. He huffed, and worked off his gloves. She should interrupt him, she should tell him to- to get out of her office! That would be brilliant, that would be so good for her, she knew. It would feel really good, too, to just snap at him. But she stood, watching as Sherlock signed for her.

_"How are you? Hurt? Hear from Jim?"_

Molly's mouth formed the beginning of a question, when Sherlock used one hand to take her by the shoulder. He signed with one hand, signs Molly didn't recognize. She could barely remember anything. She could only think about Sherlock's hand on her shoulder and how close he was, and how she wanted to push him away and run out of the morgue, right out the hospital, she couldn't breathe at all, she needed air-

Sherlock, seeming to realize his mistake, removed his hand and moved back. He rubbed his chest, apologizing. After a moment, Molly nodded, and touched her chin, flipping her hand back.

_"Thank you."_

The detective took another few steps back, giving Molly space. He hung his head, ashamed and - well, Molly wasn't exactly sure what she was looking at. She'd never seen Sherlock like this. He looked awfully small. Smaller than usual. She watched as his mouth squirmed, his brow furrowing.

"J-i, Ji-" Sherlock bared his teeth, trying to get the word out, and huffed in frustration. Finally, after opening his mouth and not saying anything, he finger spelled.

_"J-I-M."_

Molly's jaw dropped. She couldn't help it, she simply couldn't close her mouth. Sherlock couldn't _speak_. He just kept going through the same signs. It was as if he was the mute, not her.

_"How are you? Hurt? Hear from Jim?"_

Numb, she shook her head, and pinched her fingers together.

_"No Jim."_ After a moment, Molly assured him by putting her fingers together in both hands and crossing them in front of her stomach, _"Gone."_

Sherlock repeated the sign, his brow furrowing to turn the word into a question. Molly nodded, confirming it.

_"Gone."_

The detective seemed to deflate, sighing in relief. He made a circle with his index finger and thumb, holding out the rest of his fingers. Then, as if the thought seemed to occur to him on the spot, he hastily turned it into a thumbs up.

_"Okay. Good."_ Sherlock gave a little sniff, and reached into his pocket to pull out his gloves. He tugged them back on, and took a few, deep breaths. Molly waited, unsure if she should move, in case he got close again.

"Safe," Sherlock finally said. It was the first thing he had managed to say during the entire encounter. He nodded, and looked right at her, any vulnerability in his expression gone, "Stay safe, Molly Hooper."

With that, he disappeared from the morgue, leaving a rather baffled Molly.

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><p>The next week, Molly read John's blog and learned the name Moriarty.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I originally made a plan to update this once a week, one chapter per season, but I'll be in Cuba next week, soooo you get a half-update now, and the rest of season two when I get back.

Enjoy Christmas in September/October!

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><p><em>Ping.<em>

**MESSAGE FROM JOHN WATSON: HEY MOLLY, ME AND SHERLOCK ARE DOING CHRISTMAS DRINKIES 221B. LOVE FOR YOU TO COME :)**

_Ping._

**MESSAGE FROM GREG: I KNOW JOHNS PROBABLY TOLD YOU ABOUT IT. CHRISTMAS EVE PARTY AT 221B.**

_Ping._

**MESSAGE FROM GREG: IT' NOT A BIG THING, MOLLY. TRUST ME, JUST OUR GROUP OF FRIENDS. JOHN, SHERLOCK, THEIR LAND LADY.**

_Ping._

**MESSAGE FROM GREG: I THINK JOHN HAS HIS GIRLFRIEND TOO, SO ITS NOT JUST YOU AND MRSHUDSON**

_Ping._

**MESSAGE FROM GREG: ITLL BE GOOD FOR YOU. GIVE IT A SHOT.**

_Ping._

**MESSAGE FROM SH: JOHN IS WONDERING IF WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME TO 221B THIS CHRISTMAS EVE. YES OR NO?**

**...**

**MESSAGE TO SH: I'LL BE THERE.**

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><p>Molly put down her phone, hands shaking and heart pounding. Sensing his owner's distress, Toby slid his way into her lap and underneath her palms. Using her fingers rub the underside of his jaw, Molly began to relax.<p>

This can be done, she thought to herself, you can do it.

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><p>"Molly's still not here," Lestrade murmured quietly as John passed him his drink. The doctor winced, and gave a small sigh.<p>

"I got Sherlock to text her, she said she was coming. I mean, it's not like this is her usual deal, is it? Going out with friends,"

"This isn't going out though, this is just a... get together," Lestrade took a sip from his glass, "It's not like we're hosting all of London."

John regarded the room they were standing in. He'd gone all out - it was his first Christmas to properly celebrate since his service. Sherlock had put his foot down about getting a tree, but the bloody Grinch character couldn't stop John from put up lights around the mirror and windows. Not to mention the tinsel on the mantle, John was especially proud of that. Jeanette had even made note of it, saying how adorable the place looked. The woman in question was preparing snacks in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was sitting in Sherlock's chair, drink in hand, while the man himself stood at the window. He was playing _"We Wish You a Merry Christmas"_ on his violin, sweetly drawing the bow across the strings.

"Maybe this... this is too much," John finally concluded.

"How do you mean?" Lestrade frowned.

"Maybe this is too busy-"

"Where's Molly?"

John and Lestrade jumped in surprise. Sherlock had stopped playing and had appeared right beside them without either of them noticing. Quietly cursing under his breath for a moment, Greg finally replied.

"Listen, I don't think she's coming, Sherlock," Greg said.

The detective frowned, his brow pinching, "Why not?"

"Well, she hasn't shown up yet. She would have by now if she was, but she hasn't," John shrugged, "We'll see her another day, Sherlock."

"Snacks, anyone?" Jeanette offered, holding up her plate. Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at her.

"No thank you, Sarah."

Jeanette gave a scoff and turned away to stalk back to get more snacks. John, hasty to make up for his friend's brashness, took her by the arm. Sherlock seemed to think it was a good idea to make the situation worse.

"Oh no no, I can get this. Sarah was the doctor, then there was the one with the spots, and then the one with the nose, and then who was after the boring teacher?"

There was a beat of silence as Jeanette slowly crossed her arms.

"Nobody."

"Jeanette!" Sherlock beamed and pointed his violin bow at her, "Ah, process of elimination."

The silence stretched on and on. The smile slowly faded from Sherlock's face as John slowly guided his fuming girlfriend to his armchair. Lestrade shifted on his feet. Mrs. Hudson drank.

"I'm going to go get Molly," Sherlock tossed his bow over to the sofa, and grabbed his coat.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, leave her be. The party's just got started here," Lestrade protested, reaching for the detective. Sherlock had already grabbed his scarf and made his way to the stairwell.

"No no, I'll only be a few minutes, so long! Goodbye Sarah!"

_"Jeanette!"_

"Whatever!" Sherlock called up from the foyer, where he was too far away for John to strangle.

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><p>When Molly was a little girl, her Dad liked to play the radio during the winter holidays. There was always Christmas songs playing, all the classic voices that were ignored the rest of the year crooning so lovely over all the channels, on the speakers at the shops, on the little box in their living room. Dad used to take Molly's hands to keep her balanced, and told her to put her feet on his. They'd dance to <em>Let It Snow<em>, _Do You Hear What I Hear?_, _Winter Wonderland_. Dad loved dancing on Christmas. Him and Pop were so pretty when they danced together, with their laugh lines and beautiful smiles. Molly's fathers had truly loved one another, and they had such big hearts to love Molly too. She loved them so much.

They weren't around anymore. That was- that's- nothing was okay about that.

God, she hated crying. She'd already been crying all day. She wasn't pretty enough for her dress. She couldn't get her hair to work. Her bra was showing from underneath the strap. What if she couldn't get a cab? What if they just keep driving past her, again and again? What if she went and everyone laughed at her? What if she was the only one that dressed up? She couldn't handle it, she wasn't going to go. But she'd already promised Sherlock, they would be so disappointed in her for not going. She could hear them now, _"Molly you've been doing so well, and you ruined all of it. You'll have to start all over again, you'll stop going to work again. Remember last time? Last time you stopped talking and you stopped going to work and they nearly fired you, and they thought you were so miserable and pathetic that they took pity on you. Everyone just takes pity on you, don't they Molly?"_

She had all the presents she was going to give everyone tucked away in a corner by the door. She had planned on going to go to the party, honestly she had. Until she just couldn't. Now, she sat on her sofa, curled up in her house coat and her throw blanket as she tried to stop her tears. Toby purred in her lap, the radio quietly playing in the background. Guilt and shame and worry washed over her again and again, and she felt hopeless. What an embarassment. She didn't know how to fix herself and she missed her Dad and Pop. She wished she had them back, she wished they would just... show up at her door and wrap her in their arms.

Molly suddenly yelped, holding one hand to her chest and the other to her mouth. Toby, irritated, leapt from her lap and raced off into the bedroom.

There had been a knock on the door.

Slowly, she pulled the throw aside and got to her feet. Should she even go to the door? She could pretend she wasn't home. That was what she was going to, she didn't want anyone to see her like this, not crying and whimpering like a child.

Somehow, her hand landed on the knob and she opened the door.

"You're crying, why?" Sherlock Holmes asked, bundled up in his coat and scarf and gloves. The wind that followed him to her front door swept into her house, raising goosebumps on her bare legs.

Molly sniffed, hastily swiping at her cheeks, as if Sherlock suddenly wouldn't realize she'd been crying if the tear stains were gone. Realizing Sherlock was waiting for an answer, she shrugged lamely. Then, she mimed putting a mug to her lips.

_"Drink?"_

Sherlock stood for a moment, studying her with a frown on his face. Then, he nodded, "Should I talk?"

Molly's lip wobbled, and she shook her head. Every time someone talked to her, she always felt the obligation to talk back, nagging at the back of her mind. Except Sherlock, he would sign for her. Sherlock's signing was one of the reasons she fell in love with him, after all. Oh, she was so stupid, saying she was in love with a man like Sherlock. For thinking she was in love with a man like Sherlock. For being in love with a man like Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded again, and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him. Molly wiped at her nose, and pointed at his shoes. Obediently, Sherlock toed off his shoes and placed them at the mat by the door. Then, he went to the kitchen. He seemed set on making the tea. Molly followed quietly, feeling comforted as Toby slid between her feet as she walked. The detective already had his gloves off, moving through her cupboards quickly. He didn't have a clue where anything was, but learned all too quickly.. He got the kettle started, and looked up to her.

_"Did you want make kettle?"_ he asked, and she quickly shook her head. She put her index finger and thumb into a circle and let the rest of her fingers straighten.

_"Okay,"_ she said. Molly didn't mind that he was making the tea, even if it wasn't proper for the guest to do so. She was too exhausted. She was too upset. It probably wasn't right for her to be entertaining Sherlock, she didn't know what he wanted from her. He probably wanted her to go to the party. God, he probably came to pick her up for the party. She couldn't go, she really couldn't. Molly squeezed her eyes shut, and pressed the heels of her palms into them to make the fresh wave of tears go away. She just couldn't stop crying. She just wanted to stop crying.

Fingers wrapped around her wrists, tugging her hands away. She opened her eyes, only to see Sherlock right in front of her. He was frowning - not in worry, simply bafflement.

Molly's hands moved up. Her right hand swept up from her chest to her shoulder, and turned her left hand to face Sherlock palm up.

_"Stop crying."_ She whimpered, feeling new tears on her face, and she pinched her fingers together, signing a helpless, _"No stop crying,"_

Sherlock let go of her wrists, and guided a straight down his face with his thumb held out.

_"Sad?"_

The pathologist nodded, wiping at her face. Sherlock stopped her again, this time letting go immediately to dance his index fingers back and forth, as if he were a conductor of an orchestra, and repeating his previous sign.

_"Sad music?"_

Molly snorted out a laugh, and managed a meager smile. She shrugged, this time keeping her small smile. Maybe it was the music. She knew playing the radio would remind her of her parents, and it would make her miserable missing them.

Sherlock frowned, and moved past her to the living room. He glanced around, before finding the radio. He quickly flicked it off. Molly hurried over to him and turned it back on. She swept her hand down her front.

_"Want,"_

"You _want_ to be sad?" Sherlock blurted out. Molly's face contorted. She nodded a yes, before shaking her head and mouthing _"no"_. Sherlock huffed in return, but obliged to her wishes and stepped away from the radio as a familiar choir started _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ Molly smiled to herself, closing her eyes to revel in the music. Her hands found the shelf that held up the radio to keep herself steady. For the first time all day, the air came easy to breathe. Her lungs took in as much as they could, and she let out a quiet sigh of relief at the pressure easing from her chest.

She opened her eyes and turned around. Sherlock was taking off his coat. He dropped it lazily over the back of the sofa, taking his scarf and tucking it into one of the sleeves. Not paying mind to Molly, he moved back to the kitchen. The way his feet moved made Molly tilt her head curiously. What a funny walk. Molly had never noticed how funny Sherlock walked.

Christ, his hips moved wonderfully. She felt her cheeks grow warm, and not from the tear stains. Behind her, Frank Sinatra sweetly sang the opening lines of his song. Slowly, Molly moved to the sofa. She sank down against the cushions, one leg propped underneath her as she sat. She put one arm over Sherlock's coat and propped her chin down. There was a smell, something like smoke and fire mixed with the kind of smell that snow brought when it rolled over England. It was a curious smell, that's what it was. Molly tilted her head so she was leaning entirely on her arm, and watched as Sherlock moved through the kitchen. He explored her cupboards again, leaning in at one point to take a whiff. She wondered what was in her inventory that made him wrinkle his nose in distaste like that. He moved on, and seemed to find what he was looking for. Sherlock pulled out two tea cups, closed the cupboard, and did a small spin to get back to the kettle. His movement was odd. When Molly realized why, she felt like she realized it far later than she should have. It was obvious.

Sherlock was moving in time with the music.

Molly, feeling numb, moved from the sofa. She walked over to the open door frame, wrapping her arms around herself. She was suddenly all too aware of how she'd readied her hair with curls and pins for a party she wasn't going to.

Speaking of...

Turning quickly, Molly rushed over to the bag she'd left her presents in, and pulled out the one at the top. Since he was here anyways, why not give Sherlock his present? Funny, she'd expected herself to be so nervous when she gave him the gift, yet she found herself filled with... eagerness. She smiled, feeling proud of herself, and went back to Sherlock.

He looked up from the tray he was preparing, brow raised in surprise at the sight of Molly holding out a present.

_"Christmas,"_ she mouthed, not knowing the sign yet, and unable to finger sign with one hand.

Sherlock stared at her, and then belated took the gift. He touched his chin and moved his hand out. Curiously turning it over, he looked up again at her and opened his mouth. Then, taking a look at her still drying face, seemed to think better of it, tucked it into his suit jacket pocket. He gestured his finger across his chest, and crossed his arms, only to open them again.

_"Tomorrow,"_ he said.

Sheepishly, Molly ducked her head. Right, of course you didn't open presents on Christmas Eve. She gave a thumbs up, and touched her temple.

_"Good idea,"_

Sherlock went back to meticulously arranging the tea tray. The kettle whistled, and he nodded with his head for Molly to return to the sofa. She did as told, going to sit down. Sherlock followed, and placed the tea down on the coffee table. He adjusted a tea cup that was symmetrical to the other one, only to make it somehow even more symmetrical. He gestured for Molly to take the cup closer to her, and she did, preparing the cream the way she liked it. Sherlock didn't sit down, nor did he take his cup. He stood, hands in his trouser pockets as he waited for Molly to try her tea. He swayed slightly from foot to foot in time. Gosh, he probably didn't even realize he was doing.

She took a sip, and gave Sherlock an "okay" sign. He held his chin high, tilting his head just so towards the radio.

_Here we are as in olden days_  
><em>Happy golden days of yore...<em>

Toby curled up over Sherlock's coat as Molly drank her tea. She glanced over at her cat, then back to the master of the coat. She was worried the detective would kick up a fuss about fur on his precious wool, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind at all. He was distracted by the music. Molly lingered over her tea just a bit longer, then set down her cup. She got to her feet, and moved across the room to turn up the volume.

_Faithful friends who are dear to us _  
><em>Gather near to us once more...<em>

"Molly?" Sherlock asked quietly, confused. She took a breath, and turned her head to look over at him. She closed her pinky, ring finger, and thumb to her palm, and shook her sign once to her right side, then to her left, and her right again.

_"Dance?"_

Sherlock blinked, his brow lifting in surprise. The quick expression change made him look younger. He hesitated, and then stepped towards her. Cautiously, his hand found her waist, drawing her closer as he took her other hand. Oh. Molly had expected swaying, the way Dad used to put her on his toes. Well actually, to be honest, she hadn't expected Sherlock to dance with her at all. But her free hand found his shoulder.

The music played on drowsily as they stood, getting used to the weight of touching one another. After a moment, Sherlock's foot slid back, and Molly followed. They fell into a slow dance that wasn't quite a waltz, but Molly still was able to find her footing. Sherlock kept them in a small circle in the middle of her living room, dancing to Frank Sinatra. Molly's hand couldn't stop adjusting on his shoulder. She'd never touched Sherlock's shoulder before - and honestly she shouldn't have been harping on the very concept - but it fascinated her. Her hand drifted, right over the curve of his shoulder, feeling the way his pulse felt against her thumb as she glided past, the sudden angle of his strong jaw.

She didn't even realize they'd stopped moving. Sherlock had them standing face to face, watching her face curiously.

"You're not blind," he murmured, "There's no reason to face read,"

Molly's mouth moved, and for a moment she thought she was going to speak. She felt sounds form in her throat, the all too familiar feeling of her tongue tying the words back. Sherlock said her name softly, and in that moment she envied him terribly. She wanted her own name on her tongue, she wanted to reply, passing his name into the air. _Sherlock._ Just to say it Molly, just say it.

In that moment, she wanted to steal his words right from his mouth.

She didn't even realize Sherlock was leaning close until his lips met hers. Neither of them had closed their eyes yet, seeming to still process that they were, in fact, kissing. Sherlock inhaled through his nose, the air tickling Molly's cheek, and let his eyelids drop.

His hands moved to her waist, her stomach, as she opened her mouth and met his tongue with hers. Her hands bracketed his face, and slid down to curl around the back of his neck. Sherlock's hands found her face, holding her in a way she hadn't be held before. His grip was gentle - aside from his thumbs, which pinched against her cheekbones. Molly relaxed into his touch, finally letting her eyes close. Kissing Sherlock was something of a fantasy of hers, and yet the moment felt so utterly natural. It was real, he was real. When they finally pulled away, she was sure she gave a faint sigh.

Wait. No she didn't.

Molly's eyes snapped open.

Sherlock was pulling away, patting at his pockets. He pulled out his phone. It was - the moan was a _ring tone_? Why did Sherlock have a woman moaning as his text alert? Molly was about to ask, when she noticed the way his face changed, from irritated to shocked.

Something was wrong.

She began finger spelling _"S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K?"_, but he didn't pay attention. Instead, he went over to the couch and shooing Toby off his coat. He picked it up, yanked his scarf out of the sleeve, and started to put it on.

"I have to go," Sherlock said shortly, tying his scarf.

Molly frowned, and wagged her finger.

_"What?"_

Sherlock didn't answer, he didn't even _look_ at her. Instead he made a beeline for the door, something heavy dropping behind him as he did. Molly stepped over it as she followed Sherlock. He opened the door and stepped out - before turning around to look at Molly.

She waited. She expected him to step back in, to close the door behind him. She expected him to run back to her, to touch her the way he had before, and to kiss her again. He would come back to her, he had just kissed her. That had to mean something to him.

Sherlock inclined his head, and said, "Don't come in to work when they call you."

Not even waiting for a reply, he left. Molly stood, staring at the door in a confused daze. Without realizing why she was doing so, she looked around her home. Finally, she saw what Sherlock had dropped on his way out.

_And have yourself a merry little Christmas night..._

Sherlock had forgotten Molly's Christmas present.


End file.
